


Learning to Fly

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: Doctor Strange (Comics), Iron Man (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Ballet, Character Study, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: Tony is a principle ballet dancer at the New York City Ballet and tapped to be the star of a new, ground-breaking performance: the first full production of a queer ballet, complete with Tony en pointe, which has never been done before.Stephen is a highly-revered neurosurgeon with a double-speciality in orthopaedic surgery who volunteers to take over Christine's position at NYCB as the head ortho for six weeks, mostly out of spite for his hospital's board of directors.In the midst of preparation and exhaustion and focus, it only takes six weeks for Tony to fall for Stephen, despite every experience he's seen or had with love being negative in nature, and all he can do is let himself fly.





	Learning to Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Descaladumidera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descaladumidera/gifts).

> Cheers to the admins and mods at [IronStrange Haven](https://ironstrangehaven.tumblr.com/) (myself excluded, obviously, as I am a raging dumpster fire and shouldn't be allowed in public) for putting together this Bang, which was fun to participate in! Thanks for letting me play, and thank you for being so patient after the Month(s) From Hell™ and the subsequent, bleary-eyed confusion of my check-ins.
> 
> Art was done by the ridiculously talented Desca (who can be found [on tumblr](https://descaladumidera.tumblr.com/) and [here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descaladumidera/profile)). _Merci beaucoup_ for this truly astonishing artwork, and I'll admit that I stared at it for a good fifteen minutes without blinking before I registered that I should respond and say that I was in _love_.
> 
> Special shout-out to Daisy ([on tumblr](https://daisypoisonpen.tumblr.com/) and [here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_PoisonPen/profile)) for looking at this and giving me a kick in the teeth. Might've not seemed like it, but the comment you made in the doc actually got my arse in gear, and I cranked the last bit of it out at the wire. Cheers.
> 
> This is the softest rubbish I've ever written, and definitely along my usual vein of character study, though I am _not_ the type to do wildly different AUs like this. I do hope that you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Sometimes, he can’t help but wonder what his life would’ve been like without dance.

He’d probably be less tired, to be honest, at least physically. Tinkering and building is physically demanding, sure, but most of it is steady precision work and meticulous planning, and while he probably would’ve loved doing it full-time, it still wouldn’t have brought about the discipline and hard work that he puts into dance. Besides, he’s in his mid-thirties now, which is practically ancient in the ballet community, and he’s likely going to retire soon. He’s mercifully never had a major injury – though he’s had _plenty_ of mild or moderate ones – but if it does happen, he can always go into tinkering full-time while doing other things on the side, like choreography or even offering master classes.

Well, maybe not doing a master class. He’d probably be shit at that.

There’s definitely a market for Tony’s tinkering at least; Obadiah is constantly checking in and asking if Tony wants to quit the ‘frivolous hobby’ and get a ‘real job’ doing what he’s supposed to do, and he’d probably make good money doing Stark Industries work (if Howard would even have him back, anyway, though with Obie asking, Howard’s probably somewhat interested at least). Not that he really needs it – he might’ve been cut out of the Stark inheritance after everything that went down but he still has the capital he had won in the settlement and the steady pay packet he makes for ballet. He’s clean with his money, invests and dabbles with stock, and he’s got quite the nest egg. If he did (or ran) R&D for SI in the civilian side of the house (he doesn’t want a thing to do with the military side, to be honest), he’d probably make billions, if not more. But honestly, he hasn’t the stomach for jumping into the company conglomerate itself, and besides, he ultimately knows that Howard won’t let him anywhere near SI. Pride is Howard’s biggest fault, even more than the heavy hands, copious drinking, and innumerable affairs.

He switches to the left, right hand gently touching the barre as his mind wanders and his body works through the instinctive motions. It’s his day off, and while his precision is flawless as is his custom, he’s allowed to enjoy the experience today instead of being swept away by the insanity of a normal workday: light breakfast, morning barre, snack, physio, rehearsals for one to two performances, maybe a nibble of something full of carbohydrates, showtime, possible second showtime, eat his daily meal, perhaps tinker a bit before passing the fuck out to start it all over again, six days a week rain-or-shine when he’s not on holiday.

It’s exhausting, but he can’t imagine another life, and besides, he always makes time to tinker.

He finishes his barre, moving to his jetés and spins and pirouettes in the wide-open space of his personal studio, and when he feels like he’s reached the brink of total muscle exhaustion, he cools down a bit with stretches and rotations of his joints before starting his run-through of the commission piece. He glides and spins and leaps, feeling centred and calm even as he rises to his toes, ignoring the ache of his muscles and feet and the exhaustion of his body as he dances. It’s not strictly necessary to do this piece – it’s his day off after all, and _God_ he aches – but he has to remain in top form, especially dancing on pointe, and he needs this one to be muscle memory rather than absent recollection.

It’s going to be _unbelievable_ when it’s ready to go on, and utterly ground-breaking too – while there have been ballets with same-sex dancers before (mostly contemporary, obviously, usually in the background, and almost always ballerinas), there’s never been a ninety-minute ballet in a major company where two men are the principle danseurs _and_ one of the men is dancing on pointe.

Men are dancing on pointe more frequently than ever before, to be fair – it’s an amazing way to build up strength and dexterity in the lower body, even if it is murder on feet – but it’s almost always in a practise hall, or for a few minutes (if that) during a performance. Tony’s the only danseur alive that is going to do it in entirety though, just like a ballerina would; like any genius, he has no concept of self-preservation, and besides, being told that it hadn’t and _couldn’t_ be done, especially at Tony’s age, made Tony want to do it even more. He’s ready to break the ice on men en pointe because fuck gender boundaries – he can dance en pointe just as well as any woman, just like Carol had insisted with demi (and now she’s legendary, for good fuckin’ reason).

Tony finally finishes and immediately starts walking around his studio, cooling down fully this time while gently stretching his upper body, panting and soaked and bleary-eyed with exhaustion. Loki is a slave driver and an absolute shit, but there’s no denying that the man has an eye for dancing magic; Loki’s one of the few foreigners that had been accepted to Vaganova, had been a principle at Mariinsky and the Royal Ballet for nearly fifteen years, and is widely regarded as one of the best male dancers the world’s ever seen, so it makes sense that his quick brain would develop phenomenal pieces in his choreographic career. His original shit is on point, no pun intended, and when he’d thrown out the idea of doing a legitimately queer ballet with traditional pointe work by a male lead, Tony had thrown himself into the idea with aplomb, ignoring Pepper and Rhodey’s frantic pleads for reason.

They should know better anyway.

It’s taken six years of preparation and a _lot_ of pain (mentally, physically, and emotionally), but they’re ready to do this. The obscene amount of dosh has been invested and spent, the choreography is mostly solid, the music rights have been finalised, the venue and time slot for an eight-week run has been pencilled in, and Tony’s been dancing en pointe in almost every practise and class for two years, even if he hasn’t done it in performance. The only thing left is hiring another principle, which Pepper and Loki are spearheading, and getting the set and tone ready by hiring an Artistic Director, which Pepper, Loki, _and_ Scott are working on. Tomorrow, he’s going to be running through auditions with various hopefuls from around the world to see who Tony has the best chemistry with, and the Artistic Director will be confirmed soon enough.

He’s fucking _ready_.

* * *

There’s this guy that blows Tony’s mind about three-point-two seconds in.

His name is James Barnes – “Call me Bucky, everyone does” – and he’s the perfect blend of _nonsensically_ handsome, technically precise but fluid, coolly professional, and wildly hilarious. The other guys are good of course, great even, but Bucky is a firecracker, always cracking legitimately funny jokes and ribbing someone. It turns out that Clint and Natasha know him – apparently Clint had studied with him at SAB in New York, and then he’d met Natasha during their mutual stints at Bolshoi before they’d gone their separate ways, Natasha to NYCB with Clint and Tony while Bucky went to PNB.

As an added bonus, Bucky apparently comes attached at the hip with Steven Rogers, who Pepper’s been salivating to drag to NYCB for almost a decade.

“Need him,” Tony says to Loki when he comes by Tony to make the obligatory ‘correction’ at the morning barre. Loki just rolls his eyes and scoffs, continuing to call out commands in between piano chords.

It’s only hammered home when they start running through a moderate _pas de deux_ with Tony. Tony dances with three rather good hopefuls before it’s Bucky’s turn, and it’s astonishing how quickly he responds to everything, how instinctive his movements are, how strong but gentle his grip is, how fast he breaks down what Loki’s saying and applies the recommended adjustments, how he can carry Tony’s male weight around with ease. Plus they look super-hot together, which is almost distracting when he looks one of the mirrors around the room (and let’s be honest here, Tony’s _always_ looking in a mirror, not only because it’s proper ballet etiquette but also because he’s vain as fuck). Ultimately, though, Tony feels incredibly comfortable and at ease with Bucky, laughing when Bucky teases under his breath during lifts and spins or heaving with excitement when they move together just right.

Physically speaking, he’s just as attentive and invested in the six others that follow Bucky, but mentally? He totally checks out, and honestly who can even blame him? He doesn’t think he’s too obvious with his clear preference, but who knows, because Loki looks like he wants to throttle Tony. Probably because he’d wanted Namor McKenzie, judging by the racket he’d made before the auditions had even started, though Tony had protested _violently_ at the mere idea of dancing with that arsehole for eight weeks (and most likely more, if they tour).

At least Pepper’s happy. Tony can practically see the inferno in her blue eyes when she chats with Bucky about the mysterious Rogers, who’s apparently interested in the Artistic Director gig.

They all gaggle in the middle of the floor for cooldown, stretching and rolling their joints as they laugh and tell stories and nibble on carrots and granola, but eventually they all head off to shower, stripping out of sweaters and leggings and shoes and dance belts. Tony can’t help but eye Bucky’s body, and _boy_ he’s gorgeous, all chiselled musculature and smooth skin and roguish grin. Tony kind of wants to push him against a bench and lick at him like he’s frozen custard, but that’s probably _no bueno_ for a first meet. Besides, Tony doesn’t even know which way Bucky swings, and he sees a night of research in his immediate future.

Sleep is overrated anyway.

* * *

There’s a fair bit of arguing with the overall NYCB directors, but they sign Bucky anyway.

They snag Rogers while they’re at it, filling in the hole that had been vacated when Danielle had left for London, and Pepper’s on cloud nine, which means that everyone is happy except Loki (who’s never happy anyway). Tony doesn’t have an opinion on Rogers one way or another, because he’s more focussed on the fact that Bucky – lovely, wicked James Buchanan Barnes, the perfect Timothy to Tony’s William – is finally making the move from Seattle to New York under a three-year contract.

Bucky’s pretty pleased about it, judging by the group text; he and Rogers are from Brooklyn, so they’re pleased as all hell to be meandering their way home under a one-year contract that will probably make their careers. Well, if it all goes smoothly, that is. No one really knows how well Rogers will jive with the production and dancing team (and Loki), and there are always the possible injuries to take into consideration.

Tony’s always been a bit of a wildcard with his dancing, to be honest, but he’s being methodical and careful now. He loves dancing, loves the spectacle of performance and rehearsals and a good day of gruelling work, and while he hates being injured and benched, he hates not taking risks more. It’s gotten him into a few pickles before (mostly getting injuries close to showtime or mid-run and having to tap out to recover) but there are always understudies to take over if something goes wrong on normal runs. On this, though, there _is_ no understudy, not really; there aren’t a lot of danseurs who will dance en pointe for extended periods of time, as there’s no real market for it (yet), and the risk of injury is higher if they’re dancing on top of pointe lessons, because they haven’t trained in pointe shoes since puberty like the ballerinas do. There are two men who are running as understudies, technically speaking, but ultimately they aren’t on Tony’s level yet and it’ll be at least a year after the show starts before they _are_ (and that’s if he’s being generous). Tony is pretty well-known for tooting his own horn but this time, he’s fucking warranted to do so, because he’s been working his arse off for six years to get to this point, and he’s not going to blow it; if he gets injured, the show will be cancelled and millions of dollars and investor pledges will be lost.

Oddly enough, it doesn’t even rankle.

* * *

Tony sleeps with Bucky two days after he gets to NYCB.

It is _not_ disappointing.

At all.

Like with the vast majority of people Tony sleeps with, they remain on good terms, and honestly, the chemistry between them after they’d fucked is legit. Even Loki seems impressed with their chemistry and ease around each other – which is surprising since Loki’s never happy about anything – and his dramatic hissy fit over not snagging McKenzie blows over remarkably fast. In fact, the only thing Loki really complains about now is that Tony’s taller than Bucky when he’s on pointe, but Loki’s not Loki if he’s not complaining about _something_ and there’s literally nothing else that he can complain about with the two of them, since they’re both professional and focussed during classes and practise.

Besides, as far as everyone else is concerned, it’s just another tally on the equal rights scoreboard and there have been ballerinas taller than the male principles before anyway.

Tony sees how Bucky and Natasha look at each other and, with Clint’s equally nefarious scheming, starts working on hooking the two of them up. It goes swimmingly, of course, because they’re awesome like that and he vows in front of an entire class that he will be the best man for at least one of them when they inevitably get hitched.

He’s shot down quickly about that though, to everyone’s amusement, mostly because Steve and Clint have dibs apparently but also because he’s slept with both of them and that’s a bit Not Good.

Tony just laughs and gets back to work with a skip in his step.

* * *

First time Tony sees Steve Rogers with his own two eyes, he flubs a jump.

Luckily it had been during a _pas de deux_ at the end of the rehearsal, so Bucky had been able to catch him before he’d landed on his face (or worse, his ankles and feet), and Tony’s both nonsensically grateful for the save and angrily embarrassed that it had been necessary in the first place.

Tony’s surrounded by fit people and always has been. Even outside of NYCB – which is filled with physically exquisite dancers that he practically lives on top of, gorgeous medical personnel as if they’d been screened by attractiveness as well as brains, and other people who seem to be built like a hunky mountain for heavy lifting or were prior dancers themselves – he’s been surrounded by fit people. He’s from a socialite family, even if he’s disinherited, and he’s constantly in the press for being a dancer and because he’s still the only child of Howard Stark (well, the only _legitimate_ son, he’s sure) despite the bad history.

Still, the man is literally like Michelangelo, Raphael, and da Vinci decided to indulge a cocktail of drugs and absinthe, and when they were out of their minds, they concocted a genetic experiment of what the perfect human example of idealised evolution was supposed to look like, then had wild three-way sex, and gave birth a few hundred years later _in absentia_ to Steven Grant Rogers.

It’s actually kind of annoying, if he’s honest, which is only exaggerated by his personality.

Tony’s not sure if he wants to offer himself naked on a silver platter or (attempt to) punch him in his ridiculously perfect face. It really just depends on the day, and if Bucky’s there to play the mediator.

Pepper is not amused.

* * *

Christine goes on surgery leave two weeks before rehearsals start.

Tony’s always in the clinic, flirting with the physios and orthos (and Bruce, the head physician) while he gets work done, so he’s been tracking the comings and goings of the staff. Christine’s the best orthopaedist in the joint – with the added bonus of being sharp as a needle and beautiful to boot – and while he doesn’t usually have a reason to see the ortho instead of a physio, he still goes out of his way to verbally spar and jokingly leer at her.

Having no Christine at NYCB’s clinic sucks, but the interim replacement they bring in is _fine as fuck_.

Christine gave him the skivvy before she left for her ACL surgery, so he’s got a bit of info on the guy. Apparently, Dr Stephen Strange, PhD, is a fancy neurosurgeon, but he did a double-specialty or whatever in orthopaedic surgery, motivated by a disabled sister. He’s agreed to take over for Christine during her six-week convalescent leave (though he’ll have a back-up just in case there’s a patient he has to attend to at Metro-General), and he’s only doing it because he’s protesting. According to Christine, he’d passed on some Senator who needed brain surgery, not wanting to tarnish his ‘perfect record’, but had been forced by the board to do it anyway due to political pressure. Apparently, it _had_ tarnished his ‘perfect record’ and Strange was pissed.

She also tells him that he’s single, bisexual, good in the sack, and totally his type: snarky, sassy, and an absolute pain in the arse.

Naturally, Tony’s libido is instantly on board.

When he comes in the first day, Tony’s not utterly staggered by his looks, appreciative of his uniqueness and charmed by how his face is put together. Strange is an odd-looking sort of guy, all sharp angles and contrasting fullness in the face, which makes him look alien and otherworldly, a combination of features that shouldn’t fit on one face but do anyway. However, contrary to popular belief, Tony’s not really a vain person (outside of himself), so while Strange is attractive in an unconventional sense, Tony’s more interested in his personality and mind.

Christine was right when she said he was snarky, sassy, and an absolute pain in the arse. He’s ridiculously good at being an orthopaedist (and probably more so with brain surgery), according to a few of Tony’s friends who are benched, and his attitude rivals Tony’s when he’s preforming, which is quite the feat because Tony’s cocky as fuck.

It’s an added bonus that Strange flirts back.

He doesn’t go for it like he normally would though, leaving it at casual flirting and leers. He can sense that Strange is interested, and would absolutely be down for drinks and a tumble, but at the end of the day Tony’s just too tired and focussed on the finish line right now and he doesn’t have the time or energy to pull. Everything is go-go-_go_ right now, because the premiere is creeping ever-closer and Tony has to put every iota of his capabilities and attentions into their ground-breaking ballet.

It’d likely be good for stress relief, but honestly, all Tony can think of when he gets out of the grind is icing his feet with a plate of protein and greens on his stomach while he watches the telly and sleeping for as long as he’s able to. He hasn’t even jerked off in a month, and what’s even stranger is that he doesn’t even _care_.

Rhodey had recommended getting a therapist – because Tony not thinking about his prick at least a third of his waking hours is _weird_ – but Tony’d just flipped him the bird over Skype and disconnected with a laugh.

* * *

Between constant hard work, lack of sex, and the overabundance of eye-candy, Tony’s running on fumes.

There are still a few months until they open, so the company isn’t really in rehearsal-mode right now, but it’s a near thing with a brand-new ballet still being perfected. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t felt truly restful for the better part of a year now, and as much as he loves this ballet and the people he’s working with (even Steve, who’s a fucking _visionary_ and is growing on Tony like a persistent, aggravating barnacle), he kind of wishes it was opening night. The grind of practise and lessons and dancing the same thing over and over and over again with infinitesimal tweaks is a drag, whereas the thrill of performing eliminates the exhaustion and bodily pain in a whirlwind of joy, excitement, and bone-deep relief at a job well done.

“You should take a break,” he hears from the doorway.

Tony doesn’t stop his momentum, opting instead to finish his pirouettes and fly into the last jetés and dips, all set to music he can only hear in his head. When he finishes, he holds the pose – incomplete without a body behind him but technically precise nonetheless – for a long moment before he rolls back to the flats of his aching feet, already rolling his ankles one at a time as he twists his body to the man in the doorway.

“Stephen,” he greets with a tired grin, flicking a few fingers to the doctor before twisting back around, gracefully dropping to sit on the ground for a proper stretch. He’s positively wiped and kind of wants to just die, every single molecule in his body exhausted and overextended, and he wearily beings to stretch his ligaments to help dissipate the lactic acid and keep them from seizing.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Stephen says, walking forward after removing his shoes. It’s a thoughtful gesture, albeit a bit belated – it’s very late now, and NYCB is pretty much empty of rehearsing dancers, so the floors will be cleaned by the crew for tomorrow’s full day. Tony’s much more amused when Stephen gets to his knees behind Tony and starts helping him stretch, mostly because Tony’s more than capable of doing it himself because he’s limber as fuck and but also because Stephen’s a neurosurgeon and an ortho, not a physio. Still, he does appreciate the gesture as he pushes and pulls at Tony’s body, silent except for his even breaths that Tony can feel against his skin when Stephen’s own body is pressing fully against his own.

Which...

Honestly, he’d thought that he was too exhausted to even get remotely turned on, but apparently not, and he’s absurdly grateful for his dancer’s belt right now considering their positioning even if it’s horribly uncomfortable. He’s on his back, right leg stretched high above his head with the top of his foot flat against the floor while the left is pressed into the ground where it’s supposed to be, putting him in a full split. Stephen is pressed against him, one hand against Tony’s bicep femoris and the other on his soleus, and he’s pushing hard against Tony’s leg, trying to force it against the ground even as Tony tries to push up. It’s rough, slightly painful, and nonsensically arousing, feeling Stephen’s body weight push into Tony’s front, Stephen’s hips pressing into Tony’s own. He wishes he could feel it, feel that prick against his, wishes he could grind up against it until they’re gasping and desperate, feel skin against skin until there’s nothing but liquid heat spilling against them.

“Switch,” Stephen whispers, mouth so very close to Tony’s own, and Tony swallows thickly even as he obliges, not able to hide the grimace as the painful pressure on his leg releases and his hardening prick is constricted by his belt.

Tony’s legs exchange positions, slowly and methodically, and he gasps with a mixture of pleasure and pain when Stephen wraps his long-fingered hands around his muscles, pushing and pushing and pushing against Tony. He fights the urge to arch up, not wanting to ruin his precise line, but he’s panting now, his already sweaty and overheated body feeling like it’s on fire, and he can see the heat in Stephen’s eyes too.

The seconds stretch by, and then Stephen’s lips quirk at the corner as the pressure disappears. Tony takes a split second to gasp in a breath before he’s lowering his left leg, and even though every iota of his being wants to wrap his said leg around Stephen’s waist and _rut_, he forces himself to bury it, because he simply doesn’t have the energy to give Stephen the attention he deserves. His prick is a painful beacon inside his dancers’ belt as Stephen pulls away, slowly as if hesitating and his eyes boring into Tony like a brand. Tony can tell that Stephen doesn’t want to pull away, wants to push back down and _take_, but the lack of reaction (since Stephen can’t see Tony’s hardening, trapped prick) is making him respectfully back off.

Which is actually quite...nice. Respect is a hot commodity, especially for men. Tony should know – he sleeps with them regularly.

God, and that’s the problem with Stephen Strange, Tony thinks. Tony’s surrounded by gorgeous people all the time and has copious choices when it comes to some horizontal action, and it’s great for a lot of reasons. Tony’s always been anti-commitment – he’s seen what commitment does to people, to _relationships_, and he’s perfectly content exploring the world’s inhabitants on a case-by-case or casual basis – and he’s genuinely never felt the urge for that oft-rumoured ‘more’ people always talk about except once with Natasha (and that was a whole other thing entirely). He’s sincerely happy with his current status as a free agent, always has been really, and furthermore he just doesn’t really have the time nor the inclination to go out and make an attempt at a long-term relationship, even if he wanted to. He supposes that all individuals in a profession with long-hours say the same thing, but it’s just _hard_ to find someone who both understands the hours that dancers put into their profession as well as the unending dedication and energy that they push into their job. It makes it hard to find someone who truly gets why they do it, why they put their entire soul into the dance, and because of that, dancers tend to have relationships with people inside the dancing community because it’s just easier.

There’s no one in said community that has ever drawn Tony’s eye in that particular way except Natasha, not since he started seeing people as sexual beings, but Stephen _has_, for better or for worse. He has no idea why, especially since they’re both usually busy with their own tasks in the clinic – Stephen with his patients and Tony getting physio – and even then Tony’s only in the clinic for thirty to forty-five minutes before having to make rehearsal. It’s an unfathomable thing, really, and he’s not entirely sure where it came from, but what he does know is that it hits him deep in the chest whenever he so much as thinks of the man. It’s completely ridiculous, if he’s being totally honest, because it seems like he barely knows Stephen, so the idea that Stephen has somehow wormed into not only his hindbrain but also his psyche is alarming to say the least. Stephen is funny and snarky and uncommonly quirky, not to mention that he’s fit as fuck to boot, but so are the majority of people Tony knows and takes to bed – it’s not like there’s anything truly substantial there. There can’t be, with only a few weeks of short quips and conversations back and forth in the middle of Tony getting his limbs stretched and worked on, and that’s just not enough to explain this mad buzz in the back of his head.

Tony wants to wrap his legs around Stephen’s waist before he pulls away entirely, wants to beg for Stephen to rip off his belt and touch his prick, wants to tear off Stephen’s own clothes and return the favour, but he also feels like he needs to examine this properly before he goes diving into bed with the man. If he’s being utterly truthful with himself, he’s _scared_, because despite the fact that there shouldn’t be something this profound after so little time getting to know each other, there _is_ something deep there against all reason or judgement, and he’s scared that he’ll ruin it before it has a chance to tentatively begin.

It’s a very strange thing, he thinks, and wonders is there really is a such thing as _love at first sight_. Sure, probably not, and it’s not like Tony’s been googly-eyed from the first moment they’d interacted, but Stephen has wormed his way past Tony’s usual blasé attitude for some fucking reason or another and now Stephen’s just in his head.

Stephen pulls off completely, but before he can stand up, Tony reaches out and grabs his arm, keeping him from moving too far away. Tony pushes his exhausted, but still jittery body up to a sitting position and says bluntly, “You know, if I’d seen you on the street before you ever walked in this place, I would’ve taken you to bed in half a second flat.”

Stephen blinks slowly, a small frown pulling at those delicious, full lips, and then he asks, “But not now?”

Tony shrugs and says, “I have a reputation for being a bit of a...free spirit, as I’m sure you’ve heard around the water cooler. Which is fine, and I don’t particularly care what people think about me as long as everyone I take to bed knows that it’s a fun and consensual, but _transient_ thing. I don’t do relationships, and I’ve never wanted one, especially since I work insane hours and travel a lot. I’ve seen what that kind of strain does to a relationship, and I’m not really in the market for that sort of emotional torture.”

“Okay,” Stephen says, drawing the word out like a question even though it’s clearly not. The frown deepens, those multicoloured eyes flickering around Tony’s face as if trying to read his mind, and he continues almost hesitantly, “I have no problem with that, Tony. I don’t really have the time for a full-stop relationship with my hours either, when I’m at my actual job. Did I—did I give off the impression that I would only sleep with you if it was in the confines of a relationship?”

Tony takes a deep breath, steels himself, and admits flatly, “No, and that’s the fucking problem.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment, Tony desperately working to keep from visibly shaking out of his skin from a mixture of jittery nerves and what feels like fear, and Stephen clearly working Tony’s words inside that brain of his. Eventually, Stephen’s frown falls away with a slight widening of his eyes in realisation, and then his expression smooths out to something very careful and calm as he declares with no room for argument, “Alright then. Let’s get takeout and watch bad television while you ice your feet. Come on, up you get.”

Tony blinks, swallows, and then takes Stephen hand.

* * *

Weirdly enough, dating Stephen isn’t any different than having a best friend with benefits.

They alternate between each other’s places without any rhyme or reason, though admittedly they almost always end up at Tony’s place in Lincoln Square, especially when Stephen inevitably goes back to his real job – Tony’s penthouse is closer to Metro-General and is within easy walking distance to Lincoln Centre and the Koch Theatre, whereas Stephen lives all the way in Flatiron, a good hour commute to his hospital rather than the twenty minutes or so from Tony’s place. Besides, as nice as Stephen’s place is, Tony’s is infinitely nicer, plus it has the added bonus of having its own studio for Tony to use on his days off as well as his own workshop. He’d bought out two levels of his building, after all, and had combined them into a lavish space where he could unwind when he was home.

They talk and eat and relax with each other, Tony’s already mediocre social life (considering the impending opening night) tanking spectacularly due to the urge to _hibernate_ when he’s not at the theatre, but Tony’s not bothered by that in the slightest. They get on almost eerily well, meshing together like a key placed into a lock, and Tony’s genuinely surprised at how _easy_ it is.

It’s the main reason why he keeps himself locked tight in certain ways, not allowing his heart and brain to get too attached too soon, because he’s certain the other shoe’s about to drop and everything’s going to spiral out of control. It’s already vaguely alarming that more and more of their stuff is starting to get lost in the shuffle between their two flats – mostly Tony’s – and that Stephen’s _everything_ is starting to take up as much mental and emotional real estate as his profession and his mother – the latter being one _hell_ of a feat.

When he talks to Maria about it, she just smiles with a mirthful twinkle in her eyes and says, “That’s what love feels like, Anthony darling. Don’t let your admittedly terrible second-hand experiences of love warp something so beautiful into fear and negative expectations. Perhaps it might not last forever, and you certainly should keep one eye open, but cherish every single day of your life together as if it is your last and you will be so much better for it.”

There are many things that Tony could take from that long lunch he’d had with her on one of his days off, but if Tony knows anything, it’s that Maria Carbonell is a strong and wise woman, and she’s never once led him wrong. Well, not intentionally, at least. She’s not perfect, and when Howard had been in their lives, she had tried to make the best of it until Howard had finally crossed the line, but she _is_ strong, and he can’t help but take her words to heart.

It’s fascinating and terrifying and oh-so-fucking _exhilarating_ to have this soft, comfortable, easy sort of intimacy and companionship with Stephen, and even though there’s always a piece of him that’s waiting for it all to come crashing down, he lives every moment as if he’ll never get another.

* * *

Tony pushes into Stephen’s body with a soft exhalation of air.

Stephen opens up beautifully, flushed and glazed with arousal, those verdigris eyes half-lidded and darkened behind thick lashes, and Tony can’t stop looking at him, at those sharp cheekbones and kiss-bitten lips, at how his long, pale legs look against Tony’s olive skin. His body is so hot and slick and languid around Tony, Stephen relaxed despite his arousal, and he stops when his hips are pressed against the soft skin of Stephen arse, both to give Stephen a moment to adjust as well as to give himself a moment to steady his libido.

All sex with Stephen is fun and unbelievably hot, since they both like to experiment and shake things up, but they don’t really have a lot of time to do anal very often since they’re both so busy all the time. This is a treat, for sure, and Tony relishes in the maddening heat of Stephen’s body, though he absently wishes that they could switch places before the thought disappears. Tony hasn’t taken Stephen’s rather delicious prick yet, for obvious reasons – Tony’s used to suffering through aches and soreness and pain, but he’s out-of-practise for _that_ type of ache. Sure, Tony would probably be fine, but still, if there was any lingering _anything_ from getting fucked, it would force him to make minute adjustments to alleviate the discomfort, and that just invites stress and tension on other muscles and tendons to accommodate. He can’t afford that right now, not with opening night in less than two months and Peter nowhere near ready to fill in if Tony has an injury. No, it’s better to play it safe, and it’s not like Stephen’s not gagging to be fucked anyway, when they do manage to find time for anal. Stephen _loves_ it, begs so beautifully for it as he pushes his body into Tony’s for more, harder, deeper.

“God,” Tony murmurs, dipping his head to press a kiss against a sharp cheekbone before nuzzling into the damp skin of Stephen’s neck. Against warm flesh, he whispers, “You feel so good around me, baby.”

Stephen’s breathing is harsh and loud in the room, and he arches his back in an attempt to get Tony to move. Tony’s lips curve into a wicked grin against Stephen’s skin though, fingers tightening around Stephen’s wrists to keep him into place and pushing his body weight into Stephen hard, controlling his lover’s body until there’s nothing but Tony, overpowering him and surrounding him, everywhere-everywhere-everywhere. Stephen makes a thick, tortured sound in the back of his throat, and Tony can feel the dripping prick trapped between their bodies like a brand.

He rolls from and then into Stephen’s body languidly, barely leaving the slick heat of his body, and their sweat-dampened skin slides together, the light dusting of hair on Stephen’s chest and stomach a delicious scrape against Tony’s smooth flesh. Stephen chokes on another thick moan, and Tony fights the desperate urge to fuck and rut and _take_ like an animal. It won’t take much to come – they’ve been riding the edge for damn near an hour, licking and biting and sucking every millimetre of skin, and they’re both so fucking close, nearly delirious with it. He wants to, wants to fuck until he’s shooting inside Stephen’s body, until Stephen’s dripping with come, but he has a better idea, one that he knows will drive Stephen wild.

Tony lifts his upper body up using Stephen’s wrists as leverage before he’s dragging their hands together above Stephen’s head, manoeuvring until he’s got a good hold on Stephen’s wrists with one hand. It allows the now-unencumbered one to trail down Stephen’s body, ghosting across erogenous zones until Stephen’s gasping and twitching with need, and then Stephen’s moaning loudly when Tony finally grasps the leaking prick in his hand.

“I got you, baby,” he coos, and then he starts mercilessly jerking him off, just how Stephen likes it.

“_Tony_,” Stephen chokes out, bucking into Tony’s fist as best he can, but he hasn’t much strength to knock Tony out of position. Tony buckles down regardless, pressing his body down once again until his hand is smashed between their bodies, Tony’s knuckles racing across his own lower stomach. It’s _magnificent_, controlling Stephen’s body like this and ripping pleasure from him, because he can _feel_ the fluttering and tightening of his internal muscles around his prick, almost milking him for his come, and God he wants and wants and _wants_ to fuck him so hard he can’t fucking _walk_ tomorrow.

A jumble of words is streaming from Stephen and Tony pulls his head from Stephen’s neck so he can watch his face as he takes him apart. Stephen’s eyes are rolled back into his skull, a sliver of white between his thick eyelashes, and his full lips are wet with saliva as they move around words – _fuck me please god yes so close i’m so close tony please god _please_ fuck me god i can’t_ – that are increasing in pitch the closer he gets to the edge. The surge of arousal is heady and almost overwhelming, and Tony grits his teeth together to hold back his orgasm, squeezing Stephen’s prick even harder – too hard, fuck, Tony would die if someone jerked him off like this, but Stephen’s keening now in between his frantic pleas, dripping with sweat and flushed red all over – as he jerks as fast as possible with their bodies pressed together so hard.

Stephen’s words cut off as his entire body tenses with orgasm, and Tony moans desperately when Stephen’s body clenches around his throbbing prick like a vice, the first pulse of come oily and warm in his now-slippery grip. He moans again as he _finally_ begins reaming into Stephen’s shuddering body, fucking into his insides like an animal, eliciting a loud, beautiful little scream from Stephen as he’s barraged by sensation on his prick and against his prostate at the tail-end of his orgasm. It only takes a half a dozen thrusts before Tony shouts out, his own body going rigid with his release and fingers tightening around Stephen’s prick even more, and he works himself through it despite Stephen jerking wildly underneath him with the oversensitivity.

He collapses onto Stephen when his balls are finally empty, tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure, but he doesn’t pull out, relishing in Stephen’s internal muscles fluttering around his sensitive prick until they start relaxing as well. He can hear Stephen almost hyperventilating, his chest heaving underneath his own, and Tony lets go of Stephen’s sloppy prick, skin damp with come. He pulls it to his mouth and starts licking it off in between his own panting, grinning when Stephen’s body shudders around him, and then he drops the hand so he can nuzzle back into Stephen’s neck.

They breathe against each other, bodies lax and Stephen’s fingertips running down Tony’s back soothingly, and then Tony musters up the energy to push himself up one last time, carefully allowing his softening prick to slip out of Stephen’s slick heat. Stephen hisses, then hums under his breath, and finally wraps long arms around Tony’s middle so he can pull him back down.

Tony gives him a searing kiss and Stephen melts in his arms.

* * *

“First position, slowly to the front, stretch, back to first, and front, and second, plié...”

The morning barre is his favourite time of day, when everything is sleepy-soft at first as he warms his body for the upcoming hours before layers are being stripped off and the musk of warmed bodies fills his nose, and today is no different despite it being opening night. He follows the quick and shorthand instructions from the dance master – Janet is strict and stern, but ultimately patient as well, which is a blessing considering they’ve got Loki for warming rehearsals and he’s a menace to society right now – with his usual concentration. While he’s not going hard like he usually does, due to it being a performance day, he’s still meticulous with following the commands despite really only needing half an ear; after so long dancing, his brain is wired to pick up the familiar instructions and memorise instantly before following them to the letter. Every dance master is different, but at the end of the day, the warm-ups are always along the same vein.

Even though this is the biggest night of his career, he’s not nervous – he’d been a mess yesterday during rehearsals, leading to a few mistakes (thank _God_), but like always, he’s as cool as a cucumber now that it’s showtime, though there’s the usual pre-performance excitement curling in his stomach, of course. He’s worked his arse off for this, for _years_ now, and he knows without a doubt that his body is prepared to take on the ninety minutes of performance with aplomb.

If anything, he’s more nervous about the audience, specifically two in particular. Tony had, like always, gotten opening night tickets for his mother and a plus one, but this time she’s not bringing some flame with her – instead, she’s graciously offered the seat to Stephen, who’d practically bent over backwards to slot off time to go. Stephen’s never met Maria before, and Tony’s _incredibly_ jittery about the two of them being alone with each other for a good few hours, the two of them going to lunch _and_ dinner beforehand. He had always figured that he’d be there as a buffer for at least their first meeting, but he supposes it’s his own damn fault for not introducing them before tonight. He just...hadn’t had the time to do so, plus there is still that little piece of him that’s been wary of bringing together the two distinctly separate points in his life, as if somehow that would make it more real and permanent.

He hopes feverishly that it goes well, that his mother likes Stephen, because if she doesn’t, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. On the one hand, he’s in love with Stephen and kind of wants to spend the rest of his life with him, but on the other, he trusts Maria’s judgement and would absolutely fall over himself to run away from any person she got a bad vibe from.

Tony forces his brain to stop drowning in negative, anxious thoughts in order to focus on Jan’s instructions, especially when they go to the jumps – last thing he needs is to fall over and break a bone due to a wandering brain.

When class is over, all of them dripping with sweat and chattering breathlessly as they remove pointe shoes and stretch out their worked bodies, he gets the third-degree as expected.

“So, today’s the big day,” Natasha drawls in her husky voice, full lips curved in a smirk as she absently moves her legs into a perfect split, stretching out to remove ribbons from her pointe shoes even as she continues to stare at Tony unblinkingly.

“Yep,” Tony says vaguely, nibbling on a piece of celery and rotating his torso carefully. There’s a pinch in his lower back – an old injury acting up because of the constant strain on his body, easily ignored from practise but something to account for regardless – that’s bothering him, but the physio will take care of him before he goes to the warmup rehearsal.

“So many pieces coming together,” Natasha continues airily, and Tony almost wants to laugh at how (likely intentional) her hedging is, but he knows from personal experience that she’ll throw a shoe at his head if he laughs, opening day or not.

Mercifully, Bucky is the one that starts laughing, and yep, there goes the shoe. Bucky laughs even harder as he dodges the projectile easily, and then says through his sniggers, “Super awesome mom is meeting super hot boyfriend, and you’re not even going to be there to see it go down. Tell us how you _feel_.”

Tony glares at him for a hot second before he sighs and admits, “Nervous as all fuck, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Of course it will,” Carol assures him easily, stretching her torso forward while she stays in her butterfly so she can press her elbows into a discarded scarf and cup her head in her palms. “Stephen’s a great guy and she’ll see that.”

“Yeah, it’s done wonders for your mood,” Clint teases, stealing one of Tony’s baby carrots and shoving it into his mouth. In between chewing, he continues, “You’ve always been less of a prima donna when you’re getting laid.”

Tony can’t help but agree with that, but he puts up a token protest anyway. “Oi, I’m _always_ a prima donna, you little shit, so watch your mouth before I start getting a reputation.”

Through the burst of laughter in their huddle, Wanda says in her soft, diluted accent with a grin, “That would be a scandal for all the ages: the great Anthony Carbonell, primo ballerino in a ground-breaking ballet, having a _soft side_.”

Tony giggles with amusement and knocks her with his shoulder, echoing her grin.

“Still, you gotta admit that he’s chilled the fuck out since snagging that fancy doctor,” Clint says after he snags one of Pietro’s little European sausage...things and shoves _that_ in his mouth too. Natasha rolls her eyes and hides her own snacks – boiled eggs and pistachios – behind her body in order to save them from Clint’s wondering fingers (as if that’ll stop Clint from quite literally diving across bodies to steal them anyway, just to prove a point). “I mean, you’ve always been pretty chill, but here recently you’ve been strung tight and liable to snap at people for even _breathing_. That ortho is a fucking godsend, if you ask me. Should I send him a gift basket? I could add an industrial container of high-quality lube and probably win the Friend of the Year award.”

“Good luck with that,” Bucky drawls good-naturedly. “Rhodey’s liable to peel your skin off with a rusty spoon if you try to steal his best-bro-no-homo.”

“Eh, we’ve sucked each other off before so not exactly ‘no homo’,” Tony says absently, and ignoring the sniggers and catcalls at that little nugget of gossip, he adds honestly, “Stephen’s pretty great. He puts up with my ass, that’s for sure, though that may be because we don’t spend astronomically high amounts of time together because of our demanding schedules.”

“Fuck that,” Clint scoffs. “There’s no ‘putting up with your ass’ – if he doesn’t wholeheartedly support your personality quirks and instead just ‘puts up with you’, regardless of how much time you spend together, then his dumb ass doesn’t deserve you anyway, and his fuckin’ loss.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet!” Wanda coos, and Clint practically tackles her with a scowl.

“Clint’s mushy input aside, he’s right Tony,” Carol says. “It doesn’t matter how much time you spend with a person for it to be great. It’s pretty obvious that he’s in love with you, and I’m happy that you’ve found each other.”

Tony squirms at that statement – _love_, dear _fuck_, isn’t that an odd concept, and yeah Tony _does_ love Stephen but it’s not like it’s really reciprocated, he thinks; they haven’t said those three little words to each other yet, after all – even as Natasha jokes with a mischievous grin, “Yeah, found each other because Stephen’s a petty, spiteful, delightful little fuck who only took the ortho gig to shove a pole so far up his admin board’s ass they could taste the metal. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“Or hell, depending on your perspective,” Clint quips from where he has Wanda in a teasing headlock, clearly over his uncharacteristic and brief sentimentality. Pity.

“Fuck you,” Tony shoots back immediately, and then says out loud, “And we haven’t...like, said that to each other, and I don’t even know if he does? I mean, _I_ do, love him I mean, but...yeah.”

Natasha rolls her eyes again in the midst of unanimous groans from their little group, which is kind of confusing if he’s honest. “Do you honestly think James and I go around proclaiming our love to one another constantly in order to reinforce our commitment to our relationship?”

Tony frowns as he lifts one leg up, plopping his ankle on Carol’s shoulder and stretching towards his foot so he can distractedly run his fingers through her damp hair. “No,” he answers truthfully, because that doesn’t sound like anything those two would do. Tony would know – he’s slept with both of them and he’s been friends with Natasha since what feels like birth. She’s actually his _best_ friend after Rhodey and hell, they’d even dated for a few months, though they’d called it quits before their admittedly toxic romantic relationship could ruin that deep friendship.

That was a hell of a lesson, actually, that he could love someone so fucking _desperately_ but that it didn’t mean that they were good for each other in _that_ way. He had learnt a lot from those months.

“Exactly,” Natasha states, nodding for good measure. “We _don’t_ do that, because we don’t have to. A lot of people don’t, in fact. At the end of the day, it’s actions that mean something, not three overused words that people throw out there to their significant others, pets, twice-removed roommates, and their caffeine fix in the mornings, and it’s pretty damn obvious in my opinion that you love each other despite not saying the words. Come on, Tony, you’re smarter than that.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a lot of experience in this arena,” Tony grumbles.

Natasha grimaces and says, “That’s not what I meant. It’s just...you’re the smartest person I know, someone who could’ve actually done literally anything other than ballet and been beyond remarkable at it, and you’re _insanely_ good at reading people, but the second something or someone so much as _thinks_ positively or affectionately in your direction, you instantly can’t process anything but negativity or self-deprecation. And for the record, I still think I could get away with murdering Howard Stark.”

“You definitely couldn’t – that useless waste of oxygen will outlive God for the chance to give someone new a complex, and the entire defence industrial complex will help him do it with all those fat contracts,” Clint says with a scowl.

“We should definitely change the subject,” Carol states, and Tony closes his mouth, his own plea moot-point. Both Wanda and Pietro are starting to look wooden, that way they do when they think about Howard. Tony doesn’t really blame them, if he’s honest, and had even apologised on behalf of the man out of pure guilt, though he hadn’t been responsible for what had happened to them.

It hadn’t really mattered. Tony had said six words the second he’d met the twins – _I am so sorry for what_ – before Pietro had knocked Tony round the head, saying in a tone that brokered no argument, “Not your fault, Carbonell. You did not make the weapon that killed our parents, and besides, Stark has fucked you over too. Don’t you dare apologise for that man’s actions when he has not done a thing to deserve it.”

“If anything, we should plan revenge together,” Wanda had added with a dark smirk. “I hear that you are a genius, so if anyone could do it, we could. We are a team now, you and us, do not forget that.”

In any case, Howard Stark is off-limits as a conversation topic, and the only time they talk about him is when they _are_ scheming ways to take him down. In fact, they’ve actually had a lot of success with that – Tony’s patented and sold many things he’s created over the years to rival businesses (nothing directly involving weapons, but he supposes it’s possible to reverse-engineer or repurpose some of his designs) as well as purposefully and publicly (along with his mother) donated or actively created programmes for peace and abuse victims.

Tony’s brought back to the present by Steve, who’s walking towards their huddle with a fuming Loki and a blasé Mary Jane Watson at his side, looking completely calm other than the kaleidoscope of emotion in his bright eyes, betraying that he’s really nervous or is about to piss himself with excitement. At the sight of the Art Department’s newest intern, Tony’s understudy Peter (who’s been chatting with some of the younger dancers in his own huddle against the east wall’s mirrors) instantly falls onto his back from the bridge stretch he’d been doing for his back, beet red and spluttering at all the good-natured giggles.

“Hey guys,” Steve says, cool as a cucumber and not even reacting to Loki, who’s actually turning purple. “Darcy needs you in costume.”

“Awesome,” Bucky says, hopping up nimbly and holding out both hands. Tony takes one and Natasha takes the other, both of them following the trio and ignoring Loki, who’s now hissing about _this change is interfering with my vision and I should stab you for this_.

Just another day at NYCB, Tony supposes.

* * *

He’s having his back worked on while he chats breathlessly with Christine.

“Stephen’s an old pro at charming anyone, and he’ll charm your mother too,” she says, sitting in a chair by his table as Bruce massages into his deep muscle, making Tony grit his teeth in a mixture of relief and agony. “Besides, Stephen’s good for you, and your mom will see that.”

“How can she – _fuck_ Bruce, I gotta dance tonight you know – how can she see that if I’m not in the room protecting Stephen from my mother and vice versa?”

“You’re fine,” Bruce says serenely even as he digs the heel of his hand into Tony’s muscles hard, making Tony groan. Fucking sadist. He should’ve insisted on one of the physios.

“Stephen’s a grown boy who can take care of himself,” Christine says, obviously amused. “I haven’t met your mother but she raised _you_, so clearly she’s a grown girl who can take care of herself too.” Tony grumbles under his breath, then hisses, then sighs with relief when Bruce finally moves onto his sore legs, hooking up electrodes for muscle therapy. Christine continues cheerfully, “Besides, this is totally your fault for putting it off and I have zero sympathy.”

“Rude,” Tony complains, reaching out to his water bottle and lifting himself up at the waist so he can awkwardly gulp down a few mouthfuls. As he replaces it, he admits, “Yeah, I know. I mean, we’ve been dating for, what, three months now? It’s not like there hasn’t been opportunities for them to meet before, I was just—”

“Scared it’d be real if you did?” Bruce asks. He turns on the machine and Tony exhales noisily when the gentle shocks begin resonating in his muscles, relaxing them so lactic acid can dissolve.

“Pretty much,” Tony mumbles, burying his face into the scratchy, uncomfortable pillow at his head. Voice muffled, he says, “I feel like that’s stupid, but Clint says it’s pretty normal.”

Christine snorts. “Normally I’d say that you shouldn’t listen to a word Clint Barton says, because he literally grew up in a circus, but he’s actually right. He’s married, right?”

“Yeah,” Bruce answers. “Laura’s nice. They’ve got a kid too, and another on the way. I’m expecting him to retire soon, actually, the way he’s talking. They want to move out of the city, find a nice farm in Pennsylvania or something and raise a big family.”

“He’ll be around for another year or so,” Tony says, jumping onto the change of topic with aplomb, hoping desperately that they’ll drop the subject of Stephen and his mum. He appreciates that they’re trying to talk him from the ledge, he really does, but honestly it’s not working, only bringing it back to the forefront of his brain instead of the ballet he’s gotta kill tonight. At this point, it’s already done – Stephen and Maria had met up about twenty minutes ago, so the cat’s out of the bag and there’s nothing he can do. He’s tempted to pull out his phone and send anxious texts to them both, asking how it’s going, but he tries to quell that impulse; interrupting them is bad taste, according to Natasha.

There’s nobody more adept at reading people and coming up with a plan of action than Natalia Romanova, after all.

* * *

He gets a text from Maria during rehearsal with Loki and the company.

When he checks it afterwards, sweating and aching and yet starting to feel the first rush of euphoric excitement that almost eliminates the exhaustion of and in his body, he grins.

_Marry him immediately_, it reads, and Tony feels like he could grand jeté into outer space.

* * *

Tony’s favourite part of a performance is right before the curtain raises.

There’s something very dreamlike about it: the soft murmur of the audience as they take their seats, the small sounds of the orchestra warming up in the pit, the quiet and even breaths of his fellow performers as they stretch or meditate or pray before showtime, the distant sound of directors and riggers talking in their headsets or moving things around backstage. And then, when the theatre goes quiet, the principle ballerina – which, in this particular instance, is actually Tony himself – pushes the left foot to pointe and then taps gently on the floor; in response, a whispered chorus of _merde_ is given, from all the dancers to the silent hands off-stage to the administrators not in the audience, and then the entire company takes a deep breath and gets into position.

The soft gush of air that hits his clean-shaven face and the sound a curtain makes when it rises never ceases to send a shudder of pure sensation down Tony’s spine, a sensation that is honestly better than food, better than water, better than inventing, even better than sex.

Tony dances.

He flies across the floor, his normally-hyperactive brain focussed on nothing but the adrenaline, the rush, the heat, the _story_. He ceases to remember that he’s Anthony Carbonell because there’s nothing but William: his idealism and his carefree abandon, his reckless foray into love with a man who is damaged and cautious and overwhelmed by society’s ideals, a beautiful contrast to his simple and confident belief that everything will be worth it if Timothy just _believes_. He throws himself at his lover, begs with his body for Timothy to love him, to say _fuck you!_ to all of the people who tell him it’s madness, and falls in love even harder when Timothy responds, when he turns his back on a world who expects him to lie and hide behind expectations and demands. He dances and grows, becoming more cynical in the overwhelming pressure for them to conform, but he never waivers because he _loves_ his Timothy, loves him so _desperately_, and by the time they’re falling into each other’s arms in a slow and passionate _pas de deux_, he is euphoric and strong, bolstered by reciprocated love and invincible because of it.

William dances, and Tony soars.

* * *

Tony walks out of the changing rooms, freshly showered and elated and _determined_.

It hadn’t hit him until the curtain fell, but when it had after bows and flowers – Tony’d never had a bouquet given to him before, that honour only given to principle ballerinas, and it was wild – and the overjoyed company had fled off-stage to cheer and embrace without fear of being heard from the lingering audience, it _had_ hit him, like a fucking battering ram.

Tony empathises more with Bucky’s Timothy than his own William, and that isn’t surprising in the slightest. Howard Stark had been impossibly demanding, never satisfied, and horribly restrictive to and with Tony throughout his years living under the man’s roof, and had wanted perfection in the way _he_ deemed proper but also hadn’t wanted to be upstaged. Tony had been expected to graduate with highest honours, go to a highly technical school, learn engineering and business, get married to an appropriate woman, have a child to hand down the Stark name, and eventually take over Stark Industries in the event of Howard’s death.

His mother had taken him to see a ballet very young (six-years-old was the earliest instance he can remember, though as a high-society wife, she had likely taken him to other performances before that), and he’d been entranced. He’d wanted to _fly_ like the dancers did, and for once, Maria hadn’t asked Howard for permission to take him for lessons – perhaps she had expected Tony to grow tired of it and therefore it was a way to get some of Tony’s excess energy out for a short time, or maybe it had just been a way to get them both out of the house where Howard’s alcoholism and heavy hands and numerous affairs bled into their every moment, putting them off-balance or just plain hurting them, both emotionally and physically.

Tony’s never had the heart to ask her why, and at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Tony had fallen in love with it all, the constant work and the constant push to improve, the puzzle of how to train and nurture his body to do impossible things in the effort to _fly_. And Howard hadn’t noticed for years, anyway, distracted by his booze and his women and his inventions and his business, and if Tony hadn’t applied for the Paris Opera Ballet School with his mother’s support when he’d been eleven, completely convinced that ballet was his calling, Howard probably would’ve _never_ found out until Tony’d been eighteen and free from his father’s retaliatory rage.

But he had, and it had resulted in sixteen broken bones, a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, and a fractured skull that had caused head trauma and put him in a coma for two months. And that had just been _Tony_ – what he’d done to Maria had been _far_ worse.

When he’d woken up and discovered that his mother had filed for divorce from a fucking hospital bed and the entire goddamn _country_ was scandalised on their behalf, she had told him that it wasn’t his fault nor hers, but Howard’s alone, and if he wanted to become a dancer, if it was what he truly wanted, she would always support him and be by his side as he learnt how to _fly_.

He’s been flying ever since, from that first class in Nanterre to his first company performance at the Palais Garnier, from tours all around the world to the Koch Theatre in Manhattan, and he’s never wished for another life.

It brought him this particular ballet, where he expressed all-encompassing love and realised as he flew in Bucky’s arms that it was a terrifying but vitally important thing despite his horrible second-hand experiences with love.

And it introduced him to a man that takes his breath away, who fits into every nook and cranny of his life like a key slipping into a lock, and all Tony can think about is telling Stephen Vincent Strange that he is impossibly in love with him, not because he wants to emulate William and Timothy but because Stephen is _right_, and _vital_, and so impossibly, imperfectly _perfect_ that it makes Tony ache to his base atoms.

Tony walks out of that changing room, freshly showered and elated and _determined_, and every iota of his focus zeros in on Stephen, who’s smiling that endearing grin that creases his face and lights up those brilliant eyes as he listens to Maria and Pepper talk. He ignores the applause that crescendos outwards from the stagehands and fellow dancers and administrators and ignores the surprised glances when he barrels past them without soaking in all the adoration and applause like he always does.

No, he _flies_ once more, not feeling his blistered feet or aching body or his mental exhaustion, until he’s standing in front of Stephen, drinking in the sight of him in his posh suit with a red tie, and all he can say is a breathless “Oh my God, I am _so_ in love with you.”

Stephen’s grin tapers off into something beautiful, shy and amazed and mischievous all at once, and he replies quietly, “As I love you, you insufferable, glorious man.”

Tony breathes out a half-sob, half-sigh and pulls him close, closer, never close enough, and pushes up to the balls of his feet so he can claim Stephen’s lips in a consuming kiss in front of everyone and God.

He _flies_.


End file.
